


Fall Out

by RobinMistySaddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Ancient Anatolia, Archaeology, Cuneiform, F/M, Hittite - Freeform, Hittite Empire, Logograms, Luwian, M/M, Metafiction, Oral Sex, archaeologist AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-09-06 01:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16822603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinMistySaddle/pseuds/RobinMistySaddle
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, a cuneiformist specializing in Akkadian, has been hired at an archaeological dig in central Turkey.  Nothing is quite how it seems leaving Sherlock to unlock the mystery of the site.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is heavily influenced by _The Prisoner_ , especially the final episode, so things aren't what they seem. If you want something more straight forward, you might want to consider other works.
> 
> The BIAA is the British Institute at Ankara, formerly the British Insitute of Archaeology at Ankara.

The door clicked shut behind Sherlock as he left the lavatory and made his way back to his seat. The captain came over the intercom moments later to inform the passengers that the plane was now making their final approach to Esenboğa Airport in Ankara. Sherlock was thankful when he was finally able to stand up for good. Airline seats were not designed for people of even average height. The people were slow to exit the plane. He couldn’t wait to finally get off. He had boarded a plane at Heathrow at 6:30 that morning and even though he had almost a ninety minute layover in Istanbul, now seven hours later he was done traveling. 

Sherlock rarely ventured away from the British Isles; his last trip abroad had been after Uni when his parents had encouraged him to go on holiday to America. He only ended up going because they paid his way. Otherwise, he would rather have begun his new job almost immediately. He was quite comfortable teaching his classes and working on a variety of translations in his office. Traveling this far abroad was quite a change of pace for him. 

Going through customs didn’t take long, but he had to wait patiently before he was able to collect his bags from the carousel. There were two rolling suitcases and a large duffle bag. He wasn’t sure if he had packed enough, or maybe he had packed too much. He had no idea. Now he just had to find his connection. He slowly meandered through the crowds and headed towards the doors. 

“Sherlock Holmes?” a voice called. He looked around. There was a very attractive woman in khaki shorts and a t-shirt with her hair pulled back in a pony tail in the crowd of people. She looked quite out of place in central Anatolia. She waved to him. He headed over to her. 

“You’re looking for Sherlock Holmes?” he asked her as he approached. 

She smiled brightly at him. “Yes. You must be Sherlock? I’m Molly Hooper. Greg sent me to pick you up.” 

"Nice to meet you Ms. Hooper,” he said, letting go of his suitcase and awkwardly extending his hand, trying to keep his duffle bag from dropping off his shoulder. 

She shook his hand. “Please. It’s just Molly. We’re all really informal out at the site. Let me get one of those for you,” she said and grabbed one the rolling suitcase he had let go. “We’ve got a two hour trip to the site.” 

Sherlock groaned inside, dreading being stuck, cramped up in another uncomfortable seat. “Just lead the way,” he said. 

He followed Molly out of the airport and across the parking lot, but couldn’t help but watching her arse as they walked. With somebody like her around it would definitely make this job enjoyable. There was an extremely dusty Land Rover Discovery in the parking lot. Molly opened the tail gate with a loud, metallic creek. “Never far from the Empire...” Sherlock joked. She looked at him confused. “Never mind,” he said as he heaved his bags into the back of the vehicle. He settled into the passenger seat as they set off. 

“Good flight?” Molly said loudly over the rattling engine. “Sorry about the noise.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “The Discovery isn’t exactly the pinnacle of luxury, and this one is nearly 20 years old. The flight wasn’t bad, but this was only the third time I had been on an airplane, so I don’t really have anything to judge it by.” 

“So where else have you done field work then?” she asked. 

“I don’t do field work,” he replied. 

She glanced over at him quickly, barely taking her eyes off the road. “You don’t do field work?” 

“I’ve no need to,” he said, shouting a little. “It all comes to me. Quite often people will send me a picture of something they’ve just dug up and I’ll work on the translation and send it back to them. It’s cheaper for them to do it that way, so unfortunately I really haven’t had the opportunity to do any.” 

She didn’t say anything. 

“I’m a cuneiformist,” he explained. “Do you know how many untranslated tablets are sitting in the British Museum alone?” 

She still didn’t say anything. Sherlock sighed and tried to settle into his seat. He looked out at the countryside around him. Esenboğa Airport was located on the eastern outskirts of Ankara and they were quickly onto empty roads traveling through a hilly region dominated by scrub. The roads themselves were in poor condition. They were driveable, but between them and what must have been the original shocks on the car, it could be rough at times. There were few a small towns that they went through, barely larger than a quaint English village, but decidedly much more dilapidated. 

Molly didn’t ask him any more questions. Mile after mile passed. At times Sherlock felt like he could drift off to sleep, but he was too curious to let himself nod off. After about two hours they came to a small group of buildings that was practically in the middle of nowhere; a small village could be seen a short distance away. It was typical brutalist architecture, probably built during some mis-guided government development plan in the 1970s. “This is our lodging,” Molly said as she drove up to what appeared to be a three storey apartment building. “It’s got...problems, but it beats tents.” Molly climbed out of the truck. 

Sherlock got out and went to the rear of the vehicle to grab his bags. Molly didn’t offer to help this time. He slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and grabbed the two suitcases. She was heading into the building and Sherlock tried to hurry to catch up. Just as he was getting to the door, a man came out. 

“Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, sticking his hand out. “I’m Greg Lastrade. Good to see that you made it.” 

Sherlock awkwardly shook his hand, again keeping the duffle bag from sliding off of his shoulder. “It’s a pleasure,” he said. 

“Come on,” Greg said, turning and heading back inside. Sherlock followed him and down a narrow, ill-lit hall to a room. Greg opened the door. “It’s small,” he said, gesturing into the room, “but it’s better than being in a tent. I’ll let you get settled in and then I’ll come get you to meet the rest of my team.” He went back down the hall. 

Sherlock pulled his bags into his room and began unpacking. It was like being back in his first year at Uni. The room was tiny. There was a bed, chest of drawers, closet and a sink. He assumed that there would be a communal bathroom some place. If he stretched out his arms, he could touch the opposite walls. 

There was a knock on the door. Sherlock looked up from his unpacking, realizing that the door hadn’t closed after he came into the room. A woman pushed open the door fully. “You the new guy?” she asked. 

“Unless you have guys popping up around here all the time,” he tried to joke. 

She didn’t even crack a smile. “I’m Sally.” 

“Sherlock.” He offered her his hand but she didn’t shake it. 

“Greg said you were a linguist.” She leaned against the door frame, watching him as he pulled out his clothes and put them away. 

“Cuneiformist.” He shook his head. “First time in the field, and all that, before you ask.” 

“Hmm. That’s interesting,” she mused. 

He looked up at her. “What is?” 

“Oh, nothing. Anyway, nice to meet you.” She pivoted and left. 

Sherlock followed her and stuck his head out of the door, watching her walk away. It was too brief of an encounter to get a read on her. On one hand she introduced herself, but she was very distant as well. He wasn’t sure what her comments meant. He sighed and went back into his room to continue unpacking his bags. 

He had assumed that coming here would be like when he went to Uni. Lots of people in and out of the rooms, being social. All of that conventional interaction. Not that he liked it. But here...it seemed that they weren’t all that interested in him. He could use that to his advantage so he could get his work done in peace without being badgered all the time. Except it wasn’t just that they weren’t interested in him. It’s as though neither Molly or Sally wanted him to be here. 

He was just arranging the books he had brought on the chest of drawers when there was another knock on the door. Sherlock looked over. Greg stood there, smiling broadly. “Ready to meet the rest of my team?” he asked. “I know you’ve met some...” He trailed off. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Sure. No time like the present.” 

He followed Greg down the hall to a small conference room. Five people were seated around a conference table. Molly and Sally sat on one side of the table. A rather handsome man with dirty blond hair sat at the far end. He sat serenely, his arms gently folded across his chest. The short sleeve shirt he was wearing showed off his muscular forearms. On the other side of the table from Molly and Sally sat another woman. Blonde as well, but her chair had been slid down close to the end. Her shoulders were tensed up. From how close she was sitting to the man at the end of the table, there was clearly some relationship there. 

The last person sat slouched in his chair. His black hair was slicked back and he had a slight sneer as he watched Sherlock walk in. Sherlock didn’t like him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his senses were telling him to be wary of that man. 

“Thanks for leaving dinner early,” Greg said, standing at the head of the table. Sherlock stood next to him. “I wanted to introduce you to our newest specialist. This is Sherlock Holmes. We had discussed bringing in a linguist-” 

“Cuneiformist,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“Cuneiformist,” Greg corrected himself, “and he’s here. I provided everybody with his CV so you know the experience he brings.” 

Greg moved to the side, and let Sherlock step forward. “Hello. I’m Sherlock Holmes.” 

Greg moved close to Sherlock. “Let me introduce my team. You met Molly already. She’s a forensic archaeologist. And next to her is Sally Donovan. She’s our resident ethnoarchaeologist. John Watson. His speciality is Achaemenid history. Next to him is Sarah Sawyer, his assistant. And then we have Richard Brook. He’s here for to help with any other Roman and Byzantine artifacts we encounter.” 

Sherlock politely said, “Hi,” gesturing with his hand. 

Greg moved back in front of Sherlock, forcing him to take a step back. “So, I have all of the updates from today’s digs. John, I think you’re really getting somewhere in Building Two .” 

John nodded and smiled. 

“However,” Greg continued, “I want you to take a look at that area to the west of Sally’s site that we had discussed when she started her excavations. I think that could be promising.” 

“Sure,” John said. “I can take a crew and do some preliminary work there?” 

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “I think that I have some workers to spare to start laying out the grid lines and begin with some excavation. I want you to coordinate with Richard on that.” Sherlock noticed that John frowned slightly when Greg said that. 

“The material I found today,” Sally said, “You want me to keep excavating or do you want me to work on the analysis on it?” 

“That’s your call. I’m good with either one.” Greg looked around the room. “Ok? You have the rest of the evening to yourselves, and we’ll be back out there bright and early tomorrow.” 

They got up and left the room, talking among themselves. Sherlock turned to Greg. “I’m not sure why I’m here. If it’s Achaemenid history we’re talking about...” 

Greg shook his head. “It’s central Anatolia. At almost any site I can find material from 10,000 BCE to well into the 1500s. At this site alone, we have excavated artifacts from the Median Empire, the Kingdom of Pontus, the Seleucid Empire and the Ottoman Empire. I know you don’t do field work, and I’ll be honest, your name didn’t come up when we were brainstorming who we could bring in to assist us with some translating.” 

“Then why am I here?” Sherlock asked. “I mean, with what I’m being paid I could hardly say no. But you’re right, I don’t do field work and I have a dozen colleagues that do that I could recommend who would be better suited to any of the eras you’ve mentioned, especially Achaemenidian.” 

Greg looked a little sheepish. “Our...benefactor insisted on you.” There was an uncomfortable silence before he continued. “Tomorrow, I want you to see the dig in action. Get a look around at what we have going on here and settle in. After that, we’ll talk. Ok?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Sure. I don’t get why I’m here in person. It would be better if I was back in my office with all of my resources....” 

Greg shrugged. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it wasn’t my call. Our benefactor...” 

“Insisted,” Sherlock completed his sentence. “I wasn’t aware of a benefactor. I thought this dig was sponsored by the BIAA. Who is the benefactor, then?” 

Greg stared hard at him. “You were hired to come here and do a job. If you don’t think you can, I’ll send you on your way.” 

Sherlock didn’t respond. 

Greg cleared his throat. “So, the café is the next building over. If you’re peckish, get something. Otherwise, breakfast is at 7, everybody eats together, and we’re out in the field after that.” 

“Got it,” Sherlock said. “I think I’ll just turn in for the night. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Back in his room, Sherlock sat on his bed before pulling out his laptop. No internet. He’d have to talk to Greg about that. His books would only take him so far, and he didn’t bring that many because of the weight restrictions with flying. What was he doing here? If he weren’t so tired he’d try and make sense of it all. There were too many things said to organize neatly in his head. He sighed, put away the laptop and turned in for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stood on a small hill looking around, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun high overhead. The landscape was empty. He had been examining the dig to try and learn what was going on but ended up following a dirt trail away from the site. Now he couldn’t find it. He didn’t even see the buildings. How far away did he walk? He couldn’t have gone more than half a mile away at his pace. 

He kept turning and looking. He felt like he was being stalked. They had warned him about leopards and how dangerous it was to go off alone. There is a long warbling sound. He looked up. Vultures circled overhead. 

Sherlock gasped and sat up, panting. He was alone in his room. He glanced at his wrist. It was almost seven. He flopped back onto his pillow, still breathing heavily. He rubbed his face and decided he might as well get up. 

The cafeteria was in a long one-storey building next to the dorm. It was about half-full of people by the time he got there. He saw Molly, Sally, Sarah and Richard sitting at a table, but thought best not to join them. He found a spot by the wall, where he could sit down with his breakfast: a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea. 

“Sleep ok?” Sherlock looked up. Greg was standing across the table from him. 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. It’s been a while since I slept in anything other than my own bed.” 

Greg grinned. “You’ll get used to it.” He looked around. “You didn’t sit with everybody I introduced you to last night.” 

“I just thought that I should take my time to get acquainted with them, and not just insert myself into their group.” 

Greg shrugged. “Your call,” he said and walked off. 

Sherlock had just gone back to eating his porridge when John sat down across from him. Sherlock smiled at him. “Good morning. John, was it?” 

John nodded. “You chose the cheapest, most boring thing on the menu,” he said. He had a plate of Belgian waffles and strawberries. 

Sherlock looked down at his bowl. “It’s what I have every morning.” 

John leaned in. “Think of this is a vacation. You can have anything you want, and not have to worry about cost or anything.” He leaned back. “Trust me, Sarah keeps nagging about what I eat here, but as you can tell...” John nodded at his plate. 

Sherlock stirred his porridge slightly. “What am I doing here? If you’re here because of your background in Achaemenid archaeology, then there’s no need for me. The Hittite languages, sure. There’s not that many of us who have a working knowledge of Luwian or Akkadian or even the little bit of Hattic that is known. Later languages? It’s not my specialty and there are others who would be better at it.” 

Before John could answer, Greg walked back over to the table. He looked at Sherlock. “I spoke with Molly and I want you to follow her around today and learn about the site. She’s working on a section towards the North border of the site.” He tilted his head at John. “That site isn’t going to excavate itself.” 

John looked up at Greg, studying him for a bit. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I guess you’re right.” He stood up and dropped the tray with the remains of his breakfast at the kitchen to be cleaned. Sherlock found himself staring at him as he walked away. 

“Sorry,” Greg apologized. “I like John, but sometimes he seems to think he’s the one in charge of this dig.” 

“It’s no problem,” Sherlock said. “So, Molly? Are you sure?” 

Sherlock walked next to Molly after leaving the cafeteria. Four others, three men and a woman, followed a little distance behind carrying tools. “What am I supposed to be seeing at your site?” 

“We think it’s a location where they would expose bodies for vultures,” she answered a little sullenly. 

“They didn’t do that in Achaemenidian culture,” Sherlock pointed out. 

Molly stopped in her tracks. Sherlock nearly ran into her. She turned on her heel. “Get to the site and pick up with what we were yesterday,” she told the workers. She stared hard at Sherlock. _Was she waiting for the workers to move away...or did she have to come up with an excuse for a glaring error._ “I don’t know why I got stuck with you today. Greg came up and told me that I was to take you to my site. I’ll tell you this: I don’t need your ‘talents’ at my site. I do forensics...in case you missed that Greg said I was a forensic archaeologist and I have a bunch of dead people. Bones. You know what there isn’t? Writings. Or ‘cuneiforms.’” She said that last word mockingly, mimicking Sherlock’s speech. “Greg wants you to see the site, so you are going to come watch me and my team excavate bones. And while you do that, you’re going to keep quiet so I can get my job done.” 

She turned and followed her crew. Something wasn't right. Her eyes flickered from side to side too much when she was looking at him. If they exposed bodies to vultures, this would be a paleolithic site, which means no writing. And if there was no writing, then why was he here? Sherlock stood there for a minute, looking around. He saw Sally with another crew at a site a little distance away to the west. He looked back at the buildings. He could see John and Richard walking to another building, but this one temporary-looking, built with corrugated steel walls and roof. 

But what were John and Richard doing together? John was supposed to be going to the west, from the instructions Greg gave last night. And he looked distinctly uncomfortable walking with Richard. A slight limp that he didn’t have earlier. 

He had noticed that building yesterday when he drove in since it stood out from the rest of the concrete buildings. He also noticed quite a few burly men patrolling the entire camp. Each of them carried some sort of submachine gun. He still wasn’t sure what he was doing here. This wasn’t what he expected at all. He was in the middle of nowhere in what in the daylight looked like an armed camp. He sighed and followed after Molly. 

The space they were excavating wasn’t particularly big, approximately 6 metres square. String criss-crossed the whole area, breaking it into square quadrants. Molly stood to the side with a notebook and would direct the three men as they slowly scraped away dirt to expose bone. The other woman sat on the edge of the shallow pit, sketching how the bones were lying as they were exposed. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just wandered around the site, watching them as they did their work. It was very tedious. The bones were already exposed and lying on the floor of the pit. A worker would carefully pick up a bone for Molly to inspect it, and after she looked it over it was bagged. There were a lot of bones, almost like it was a mass grave site. The bones themselves looked darker than what he expected. He was curious about them but thought it might be best not to ask questions of Molly. 

At noon, the workers packed up and headed back to the cafeteria. Molly went with them, and Sherlock followed along silently. After lunch, a somewhat disappointing affair of sandwiches, Sherlock lingered at the cafeteria, promising Molly that he would follow her shortly. She departed with her crew, seeming to be relieved that he wouldn’t be tagging along with her like a little puppy dog. 

Sherlock wandered out of the cafeteria, looking around, trying to avoid the guards, before wandering about, acting as though he moving about randomly, but very carefully working his way to the building he saw John and Richard at earlier. But as he got close to it, one of the guards came up to him. “Nereye gidiyorsun,” the man said. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Turkish,” Sherlock replied. 

“Buradan ayrılmak zorundasın,” the man said, raising his voice. “Şimdi gitmelisin.” His hand dropped to his Uzi which hung on a strap from his shoulder. 

Sherlock began to back up slowly, putting his hands up. “It’s not a problem...” he mumbled. He backed into another man and jumped. When he whipped his head around, he saw it was Greg. “I didn’t...” 

“Of course not,” Greg said, putting his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Onun için endişelenme, Veli. Onunla ben ilgilenirim,” he said to the man, who relaxed a little. 

“What’s going on here?” Sherlock asked as he headed back to the cafeteria with Greg. 

“It’s just a dig,” Greg explained. 

_Liar_ , Sherlock thought. “Let me ask you then,” he said, stopping. Greg was forced to stop and he let his arm drop from Sherlock’s shoulders. “I wasn’t brought here for translations of Akkadian, Pontic, Greek, or even Latin. What exactly am I doing here? Because if you can’t...or won’t...tell me, I’m ready to go home. Now.” 

Greg stared at him for a minute and then sighed. “Fine. You want to see why you were hired? Come on.” He turned and led Sherlock back towards the building that they were just at, but instead of going in there, led him around past it. Greg was walking at a fast pace. Sherlock wasn’t used to moving so quickly and struggled to keep up. 

They came to another building composed of corrugated steel. Greg fished into his pocket and pulled out a key to unlock the padlock on the door. They went inside. 

It was dimly lit with only the faintest of sunlight slipping through the cracks between the pieces of steel. Greg pulled a torch out of his jacket and led Sherlock to a pit and down some crude stairs. He turned off the torch and fumbled around in the near darkness. “This is it,” he announced as a halogen light illuminated one of the sides of the pit. 

Sherlock stared. There was a wall ten feet high and at least 15 feet feet long with neolithic paintings of animals and people. But there were also block symbols arranged in neat rows which covered most of the wall. “What...” he started, “...are these hieroglyphs?” 

“This was found three years ago by a local farmer,” Greg said. “When word reached our benefactor, a small team was hired to dig here, and they uncovered the entirety of this wall. I came here last year under the direction to explore the area around here. But I always felt it was important to figure out what this wall said.” He turned to Sherlock. “You’re not the first person to take a crack at it. But so far, nobody’s been successful and figuring out what it says. I think that if we get this translated, it will lead to more discoveries.” 

“It’s definitely different,” Sherlock said softly as he approached the wall. He got close to it, not touching it, but inspecting it carefully. He turned back to Greg. “You want me to translate this?” 

“That’s it,” Greg said. 

“Is this it? Have you found anything else at the site with this?” he pressed. 

“This is what you have to work with,” Greg replied. 

He moved back towards Greg. “Has our ‘benefactor’ seen anything like this before?” 

“Look,” Greg said exasperated, “Either you can do it or you can’t.” 

“I can do it. But the larger the sample size I have, the easier it is for me to do it,” Sherlock explained. 

“This is what you have to work with,” Greg replied. “Are you going to do it, or should I get somebody to drive you back to Ankara?” 

“I’ll do it,” Sherlock said, “But I’m not a miracle worker.” 

Greg turned the light off and led Sherlock out of the building. “I’ll need progress within a week,” he said flatly, as he locked the building. 

“Or the benefactor...?” Sherlock asked. 

Greg looked annoyed. “Just get it done,” he said and he walked away, leaving Sherlock alone. 

Sherlock waited a moment before heading back to his room. He scanned the books that he had neatly arranged on his chest of drawers. He didn’t think any of them would be useful. He picked up a book by Anna Davies on Luwian, but from his brief glimpse at the wall the symbols didn’t appear to be that similar. He also took his cuneiform dictionary which included proto-cuneiform pictograms. 

He opened up his laptop. There was a network that he could connect to, but it was secured. He’d have to ask Greg for the password. He’d need to get access to the internet to see if there were any other samples that others had seen that were similar to what he had just seen. 

He walked back outside. He didn’t see where Greg had gone earlier and wasn’t sure where he could even find him. He spotted Sally’s portion of the dig and headed over. The pit was larger than the one Molly had been working in. There were several short walls running perpendicular to each other. 

“Do you prefer to work in silence too?” he asked her. 

Sally looked up and nodded at him in acknowledgment. “Keep going,” she said to the dig team and then climbed out of the pit. “I imagine you’re talking about Molly. She can be a bit...intense.” 

Sherlock laughed a little nervously. “A little.” 

“Do you know anything about that building there?” he asked, pointing to the one that Greg had brought him to. 

Sally shrugged. “It’s not part of my assignment.” Non-committal. Either she didn’t know, or she wouldn’t say. 

“Greg just showed me the most amazing thing in there,” Sherlock gushed. 

Sally crossed her arms and chewed her bottom lip slightly. “You don’t say.” 

Maybe he had oversold his enthusiasm, but he decided to keep pressing. “I’ve never seen any sort of-” 

“I’m sorry,” Sally said interrupting him. “How does this relate to me? Because unless there’s more to this than just a wall with some writing on it, I have my own portion of the dig to handle.” 

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, then,” he apologized. “Do you know where I can find Greg?” 

“I’d wait until dinner,” she said as she turned to climb back down into the pit. 

At dinner, Sherlock sat the same table he sat at breakfast, barely eating. He watched the people come in for dinner, but Greg wasn’t among them. Richard sat down at his table this time. 

“I heard Greg showed you the wall,” he said loudly. 

Sherlock studied him. If he was here for expertise on Roman and Byzantine archaeology, why would he show any interest in what Greg had showed him? 

“What do you know about it?” Sherlock queried. 

Richard laughed. “Nothing. It’s a bunch of scribbles if you ask me.” 

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. “And yet you’ve approached me to discuss the matter. So, I ask again, what do you know about it?” 

“What’s there to know? It’s just a cutesy geometric design with some paleolithic drawings tossed in.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, practically growling. “Personally, I think it’s a waste, a waste that they brought you all the way here from merry ol’ England.” 

Sherlock sat back, surprised at his intensity. “I think you’re compensating for your inability to solve this problem.” 

Richard stood up, pushing out his chair loudly as he did. “Sherlock Holmes...” People around them were looking at them. “I will be impressed, I will, completely and totally be impressed, if somehow YOU can take that and make it mean something.” He laughed. “I mean, the brilliant cu-NE-i-form-ist figuring out a kid’s art project-” 

Sherlock jumped up. “As if you would know anything about logograms?” 

Richard lunged forward, a dark shadow flashing across his face, planting his hands on the table causing Sherlock to jump back slightly. “Don’t you DARE challenge ME! I can...” He stopped and stood up, smoothing his clothes. The meanness he had just displayed was gone. “You are out of your element, Sherlock Holmes. Do not think that you will find allies here. You are alone here, to do a job that is pointless, and you will fail. And for the rest of your life you will be haunted that out there is a script you cannot translate and,” he slowed down for effect, “it was all just a bunch of scribbles.” He looked smugly at Sherlock before turning and walking away. 

Sherlock glanced around. Everybody in the cafeteria was staring at him. He realized his hands were shaking. He quickly left the cafeteria and hurried back to his room. He’d find Greg in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was very thirsty. He reached for his canteen but it was empty. He knew he had to hurry. He continued walking across the open land, deciding to avoid the hills that would allow him to view the landscape but would also make him visible. 

He spied a stream and hurried over to it. He knelt down and was just about to lift his cupped hands to his mouth when he saw that opposite him was a leopard staring intently at him. 

The leopard opened its mouth and snarled at him. 

Sherlock woke himself up with a gasp. He exhaled slowly before sitting up. Wide awake. These dreams. Why did he keep having them? He never dreamed like this before, so vivid. 

At breakfast, he didn’t have to wait long before Greg came over to him. “I’ve already spoken with my security team. Veli will be waiting for you to unlock the building.” 

“The big burly guy from yesterday? Is he my babysitter?” Sherlock asked. 

“Don’t be daft,” Greg responded, a little annoyed. “He’ll sit outside the entire time. He doesn’t care what it is that you’re doing in there.” 

“As long as I can get work done,” Sherlock said nearly under his breath. 

Greg was about to walk away but he stopped. “Just do your job. We all have our responsibilities here, and now since I showed you why you were hired you have yours. Do your job. Got it?” 

“I’ll need to access the internet,” Sherlock said flatly. “Since nobody bothered to tell me what I would be doing here, I don’t have the right resources with me.” 

Greg ran his hand through his hair. “Are you telling me you can’t do the job you were hired for?” 

Sherlock crossed his arms. “Are you telling me that you are willing to prevent me from doing my job? Because if that’s the case, you can send me home and I’ll tell my contact-” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Greg said, interrupting him, looking a little nervous. “Get started with what you can.” He shook his head and walked away. 

After breakfast, Sherlock grabbed a note pad, pencils and his mobile phone from his room and headed to the building. Veli was waiting for him. “Mobile phone?” he asked. 

“My mobile?” Sherlock was confused. 

“It’s not allowed in there,” he said, jerking his thumb at the door behind him. 

“Well, I don’t have it,” he bluffed. 

“Go get it,” Veli demanded. “I’m not opening that door until I have it.” _His English is excellent_ , Sherlock thought. _Why were he and Greg speaking in Turkish yesterday?_

“I need it for my work,” he protested. 

Veli crossed his arms and stared at him. Sherlock sighed and reached into his trouser pocket and pulled it out. After making sure it was powered off, he handed it to him. Only then did Veli turn and unlock the door for Sherlock. Once Sherlock was inside, Veli closed the door after him. Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the lock close. 

Down in the pit, he turned on the two halogen lights and sat down on the floor. He ignored the paleolythic drawings and focused on the blocks. They were about three inches square with three or four signs in each one. There were hundreds of blocks. This was going to take time. 

The sun was already hovering above the horizon by the time he decided to call it quits for the day and left the building. He had to knock on the door for it to be opened for him. Veli handed him his cell phone back and re-locked the door. Back in his room he reviewed his notes. He had spent the day just looking at the blocks, finding several that repeated multiple times. Those he had carefully copied over in his notebook. 

The cafeteria was already closed for the night. After dropping off his things in his room, he walked down the hall to the conference room. The only person in there was Sarah, who was typing on a laptop. “Excuse me,” Sherlock said, rapping on the door frame. 

Sarah looked up from the screen, but left her hands poised over the keys. “You missed dinner,” she stated. 

“Yes, about that...” Sherlock started. 

“You also were not at lunch,” she added. 

“I rarely eat lunch. I usually forget about it,” he said a bit sheepishly. 

“Not to mention lunch yesterday.” 

“Are you keeping track of me?” he demanded. 

“Here,” she continued, ignoring his question, “meals are a time to come together and be with our colleagues. It’s a great way to be able to collaborate on our various projects.” 

Sherlock waited a few seconds before saying, “Anyway, about food...” 

“The cafeteria opens at 7 tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t miss any more meals,” she said and looked back down at her computer. “And try not to cause a scene.” 

Sherlock sighed and headed back to his room. 

Things began to fall into a regular pattern. Breakfast, wall, lunch, wall, dinner. At meals he felt as though he were being observed. He felt a presence throughout the day, but it was more so at meals. But when he would serendipitously observe the others, they paid scant interest in him. John would join him for most meals, although they never spoke about anything related to work at the site; mostly John would inquire about former work and translations he had done. Sherlock was rarely able to ask John about his background, and when he did John would answer tersely and quickly change the topic back to him. He noted that John rarely sat with Sarah. An interesting dynamic. Some sort of romantic interest there, but not a particularly warm one. Sherlock was glad for the company. He didn’t say anything but he noticed that John had started growing a mustache. During the day he slowly worked through the hieroglyphs, cataloging logograms. And every morning we was woken by a horrible dream. 

At the end of the week, Greg approached him at breakfast. “I’m going to need, by the end of the day, a report on your progress.” 

“A written report for our benefactor?” Sherlock asked. 

“Five P.M.” Greg said. 

“Then I guess you can let Veli know that I won’t be going to the site today. I’ll need to be able to print.” Sherlock leaned back slightly. 

“Come on,” Greg said and headed out of the cafeteria and back to the dorm. He led Sherlock down the hall past the conference room. Sherlock realized that he had been so preoccupied with everything else going on that he hadn’t even explored this building beyond finding the toilets and showers. He didn’t even know who was staying in each room, other than he figured that the women were not on this floor. At the end of the hall there was a small room with several computers and printers. “In here. I don’t think I need to give you any pointers on how to use these things,” Greg said and promptly left. 

Sherlock went back to his room to grab his notes before sitting down at the computer. He was just about to open Word when he noticed that there was an Explorer icon on the desktop. He double-clicked it and a security window opened asking for a password. How strong was the password? He tried ‘password’, ‘1234', ‘ABCD’, and all of the other common passwords that the average person used. Nothing. He tried Greg’s name, the town they were in, all sorts of names from history important to Anatolia. Still nothing. Sherlock sighed and closed it before opening Word. 

He spent most of the day working on the report, carefully writing up his findings, leaving some space for drawing a few of the hieroglyphs. He finished around three and headed outside. After walking around the site a bit, he saw Greg at Sally’s site. 

He could hear a lively discussion as he headed over, but as he approached closer, they fell silent. “All set to go,” Sherlock said as he approached Greg and handed him his report, who was standing on the edge of the pit looking down at Sally and her crew. He smiled down at Sally but she just stared back at him. 

“Thanks,” Greg said, uninterested. “I’ll send these along.” 

“Are...” Sherlock started, but trailed off. Greg didn’t even glance at him. Sally and her workers stood nearly motionless, just shifting slightly. “I’ll just go.” As he headed back to the dorm he heard voices start up again. 

Sherlock decided to just head back to his room and go over his notes some more before the cafeteria opened for dinner. At dinner, as usual he sat alone. He was just finishing his meal and standing up to put his tray away when Greg stormed in and made a bee-line for him. 

“You fucker!” he bellowed. 

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock asked, keeping his voice level. 

“Did you think that I wouldn’t read this crap?” He held out the stack of papers in a clenched fist, crinkling them up in his hand. 

“Everything in that report is entirely accurate,” he said calmly. 

Greg stared at him and then pulled out the last page, flattening out the creases in an exaggerated manner. “‘While this author has begun to extensively catalogue the various logograms, further analysis is impossible due to the dig director not permitting access to remote sources via the internet.’ That’s what you wrote.” He threw the papers down on the table. 

Sherlock shrugged. “I'm well aware of what I wrote. I’m not sure which part you’re taking exception to. It is entirely accurate. You asked for a report on my progress. I have none, because I’m essentially doing the same work I did my second year at Uni, cataloguing logograms. Anybody could do what I’ve done so far, even you.”

“You shit!” Greg reached out to grabbed Sherlock’s shirt, but Sherlock stepped back and Greg missed.

“I’m ready to go home,” Sherlock said. “I’m not going to be able to do the job properly, so there’s no point in me remaining here.”

Greg stared at him. “You fucker,” he declared before he stormed out of the cafeteria.

Sherlock’s heart was racing, and he wanted to go back to his room, but he thought it best to stay where he was. He sat back down, pulled out his notebook and went through various logograms he had copied.

“Come on,” a voice said. Sherlock looked up and behind him. Molly stood there with her hand on her hip. He looked around. They were the only ones left. “I’ll, uh, I’ll walk you back to your room.” 

“You don’t...” Sherlock said. 

Molly shrugged. “I don’t mind.” 

Sherlock closed up his notebook and tucked it under his arm. 

“Nobody’s ever spoken back to Greg like that,” she volunteered once they left the building. 

“When I need to say something, I tend to be very direct,” he said, “but entirely truthful.” 

“You don’t have to worry about getting a reputation, since you get to just sit in your office. If I did something like that, when I applied for a different dig, I’d probably get labeled a ‘troublemaker’ and not get the position, and if I can’t get chosen for a dig...” She kicked at the ground as they walked. 

“I guess I’m lucky, then.” He wanted to put his arm around her and console her, but he wasn’t sure how she would react to it. 

They spent the rest of the short walk in silence. When they got to his room, Molly said, “Let’s go in.” 

Sherlock opened the door and the two of them squeezed into his bedroom. Before Sherlock could say anything, Molly moved to him and kissed him. It was sudden, but Sherlock responded, returning the kiss and pulling her against him, instinctively. His hands slid down to cup her arse and pull her into him. 

He didn’t get it. When Molly picked him up, at first she had been friendly, but since then she had been very stand-offish. Was this just some sort of attempt at consoling him? A sympathy fuck? If that was where they ended up? Or did she have any interest in him that she never expressed and since he would be leaving tomorrow wouldn’t have another chance? Frankly, at this point, he didn’t care which one it was. She was very attractive and the warmth of her body felt nice in his arms. 

It didn’t take long before they were both undressed. Molly pushed Sherlock back onto the bed and climbed on top of him. 

He was very hard. “Ummm...” 

“Shhh,” she said and rubbed his cock against her clit. She moaned in pleasure as his head rubbed back and forth against her. Finally, she leaned back to grab her trousers that she had tossed onto the bed and pulled a condom out of her pocket. Sherlock was a little embarrassed he hadn’t thought about the need for one; he was too caught up in the moment, and he also hadn’t packed any for the trip. She rolled it over his shaft and quickly slid onto him, moving her hips gently up and down his cock. 

“Do you want me to...” he asked, thrusting up into her as she moved down on him. 

“No, just...” Molly continued moving her hips slightly faster. “Are you sure...” she started. 

Sherlock was surprised at the question, given that Molly had initiated this, and was momentarily distracted. “Am I sure about this? Absolutely.” 

Molly shook her head, at the same squeezing herself tight around Sherlock causing him to gasp. “The symbols. Are you sure...” 

Sherlock was trying to concentrate on fucking Molly, but her talking was interfering. “Mmm. Can we not?” 

Molly was silent for a minute, riding harder. Sherlock was getting closer. He looked up at her, but there was something about her, as though she wasn’t really into it. “You haven’t figured out what the symbols mean?” she asked. 

Sherlock tried to ignore her questions, instead focusing on the woman in his bed astride him. It had been very enjoyable, but the questions were a distraction. 

“Is there something you found you don’t really want to tell Greg?” She leaned down, brushing her breasts across his chest but slowed her movement to almost a standstill. “It’s ok. You can tell me,” she whispered in his ear. 

Sherlock whimpered slightly and started thrusting up into her, trying to take control. He was so close now and just wanted to finish, but he started to soften as well. He had wanted to make sure Molly got off too, but everything was crashing down on him and he didn’t care if she thought of him as selfish if he came and stopped. 

Molly sat back up and started moving again. He was hard again instantly. Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated; he just wanted to be done with it. Fortunately for him, it wasn’t long before he groaned, held still and erupted. 

Molly stopped moving when Sherlock came. She sighed and got off of him and quietly got dressed. She left without saying another word. 

Sherlock went to the desk and began to copy all of the notes he had made. Molly’s questions and demeanor had put him on edge. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he was positive that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave with drawings of what he had seen. He wished he had been able to take pictures of the wall because then he would have had proof of the existence of the script, but his drawings would be better than nothing. Once he was done, he unzipped the lining of his suitcase and put the copied papers, evening them out as much as possible so it wouldn’t draw suspicion in case anybody checked. Then he began to put his clothes into the bag. 

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Sherlock called, although not really wanting anybody in his room right now. 

The door opened and Greg walked in. Sherlock eyed him wearily, subtlety shifting his weight to prepare himself for anything Greg might do. 

Greg’s clothes were rumpled, his typically neat gray hair mussed and his face was red. “I, um,” Greg started, “I submitted your report, exactly as you wrote it. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t alter anything. And then, I spoke with the benefactor, and...you were right.” 

Sherlock nearly gasped, but he didn’t want to betray his feelings and kept a dispassionate look. 

Greg went on. “I should have given you the password to connect on-line. It’s ‘DemBones’. Capital d-e-m-capital b-o-n-e-s. All one word.” He chuckled nervously. “Archaeology humor. Anyway. I want to apologize for what happened earlier, too.” He turned to leave. 

“You spoke with the benefactor?” Sherlock asked. 

Greg stopped and turned back. “Yes. Why?” 

“I only spoke with a contact. Who exactly are we working for?” 

Greg stared hard at him. “I don’t think I need to repeat this, but you were hired to do a job. Do it.” He left the room, slamming the door after him. 

Sherlock opened his lap top and loaded the browser. When the password prompt appeared, he carefully typed ‘DemBones’ and he was on-line. He shut the computer, looking forward to finally being able to make some progress.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly. She sat astride him as he lay on the ground. They were naked. She was grinding against him. He reached up to stroke her breasts, making her moan a little louder than she already was. 

He heard a growl. He tried to look around, but Molly grabbed his head so he couldn’t move it. He blinked. She had the head of a leopard. She snarled, lunging down with her jaws wide. 

Sherlock gasped, blinking his eyes open. He groaned in the darkness. 

After breakfast he walked over to the building. Veli was waiting for him, as usual. “I’m not giving you my phone today,” Sherlock said brightly. “Nor my laptop.” He held it up to show it off. 

“I was told,” Veli growled. “But I’m still in charge of the lock.” He held up the key and shook it in front of Sherlock’s face, but made no move to unlock the door. 

Sherlock waited patiently before finally saying, “I can do this for as long as you like. All day if necessary. But, when I see Greg later, I will tell him what transpired here...and then you can deal with that.” 

Veli grunted in displeasure, but unlocked the door for him. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said cheerily as he went inside. The door slammed shut behind him. 

Sherlock sat down in the pit and opened his computer. Surprisingly, the connection which wasn’t that strong in his room was extremely strong here, and he had no issue with connectivity and speed. He caught up on a few e-mails and settled in to cross-referencing the logograms with other symbols commonly used in Anatolia. Better, but still this would take a while. 

Two days later, at dinner, Greg approached him. “I need something. Some sort of progress...” 

Sherlock sighed. “This is completely new. It’s not like there’s a database out there with logograms from late neolithic Anatolia because none have existed before.” 

Greg looked confused. “Late neolithic?” 

“The imagery that’s associated with the logograms is similar to imagery located at other Anatolian sites around 8000-5000 BCE, like Çayönü, Çatalhöyük, and Hacilar. Without using lasers to disprove otherwise, it appears as though the logograms were painted at the same time as the pictures.” 

Greg considered what Sherlock said. “OK. So where does that get us? How soon do you think you can get me something? Anything.” 

Sherlock rocked his head from side to side. “Give me until the end of tomorrow. I have a theory.” 

“Fine,” Greg said. “Here.” He tossed a key to Sherlock. “Between now and then, do what you can. Get me something.” He quickly left. 

Sherlock headed back to the site. Clearly Greg needed something; there must be some sort of pressure from the benefactor. He sighed and began running through the repeating logograms and symbols. It looked like this was going to be an all-nighter. 

By the time the morning sun’s faint rays slipped between the cracks in the corrugated steel walls he realized what was written on the wall. “Fuck,” he said quietly to himself in amazement. “Fuck,” he said louder, reviewing his notes. “Fuck, yes!” he yelled. 

He left the building, carefully locking it after him and hurried to the cafeteria. Greg was eating breakfast with John and Richard. “It’s Hattic,” he announced to Greg. 

Greg looked up at him. “What is?” 

“The logograms,” Sherlock explained, somewhat patiently. “It’s Hattic.” He quickly added, “I think.” He dropped down next to Greg. “The repeating blocks, not all of them, but several of them are names, and much like Egyptian hieroglyphs, these have a distinguishing mark. Here they have an additional line over the logograms.” He looked over at Richard. “Scribbles, you said? Didn’t think I would notice the patterns and marks?” 

He turned back to Greg. “I don’t know why, because I didn’t do a full translation of it, but you have essentially the telling of ‘The Slaying of the Dragon’. And you need to understand that this is a very rough translation of only a small percentage of it. I don’t have all of the nuances down, and I only have a small portion of the words worked out, but Teshub, Inara, and Hupašiya figure prominently. And it clearly tells of a conflict between Teshub and The Serpent. Nobody though it existed, that Hattic was only oral. But clearly what is here is a script for Hattic. Or something very similar.” 

“Well done,” Greg said. “I am quite impressed. How certain are you of this?” 

“That it’s Hattic?” Sherlock mulled it over in his head. “I’d say 80% positive it’s Hattic. Or else it’s in their language tree, given it’s very rough similarity to what we know about Hattic from Hittite.” 

“Hypothetically,” Greg asked, “Given what you have already, how quickly would you be able to get something more than a rough translation?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m still working with a very limited vocabulary. I think if I rushed, I could give you a translation within two weeks. It would still be very rough. It’s not like I have a dictionary to work from” 

“Should we...?” John interrupted, looking at Greg. 

Greg whipped his head around and glared at John. “I’m not so sure. It’s not what I was told to do.” 

“But it would be more useful,” John pressed. 

“It’s not part of my instructions,” he responded harshly. 

Richard threw up his hands. “Enough of this shit debate. Just show him already.” 

Greg stood up and looked at Richard. “I’ll call the benefactor and see what he has to say.” 

“Why don’t you call him right here?” Richard responded. 

John looked up at Greg. “If he had a larger vocabulary, it could help us with our work. And as nice as it is for that show piece to be fully translated, it’s our work here that is the top priority.” 

“What exactly are you excavating?” Sherlock asked John. 

“Fine,” Greg said to John and Richard. “I’ll show him. But if there are any repercussions, it’s on you. I’m not taking the blame this time for another one of your fuck ups.” He stared hard at Richard before he turned to Sherlock. “Come on.” 

Sherlock followed Greg out of the cafeteria. They headed towards the building that he had seen John enter on the first day, but instead went around it to another building of corrugated steel that was behind it. Sherlock didn’t know that this building was even here. Greg fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. “Welcome to the library,” he said as he flicked a switch. 

The entire building was flooded with bright light. There was a pit, probably about 8 feet tall, that was neatly divided into ten rows, each about twelve feet long. Greg went down a set of stairs dug out of the dirt into the closest row. Sherlock followed. On either side of him were rough earthen cubbies stacked 6 feet high, and within the cubbies were clay tablets. Sherlock reached into one and pulled out a tablet. It was covered with the same sort of logograms that he had been deciphering. “You told me there weren’t any more,” he accused. 

Greg turned back to look at him. “I didn’t. I told you to translate what you saw.” 

Sherlock looked at the tablet up and down. He pulled out another one. “Do you know...” he started, before trailing off. 

“I wasn’t authorized to show you this,” Greg said. “And I’m still not, so I’m taking a risk in order to help John and Richard with their portions of this site. But, realistically, this is what we need translated. Are you up for it?” 

Sherlock looked over the tablets in each of his hands. “I...I...Do you know that people in my profession would kill for an opportunity like this?” 

“Can you do it?” Greg pressed. 

Sherlock lowered his hands and looked at Greg. “No.” 

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Greg asked incredulously. “You translated what was on the wall. Why can’t you do this?’ 

Sherlock looked at him calmly. “What you expect me to do, within what I’m assuming is a small amount of time, is something that cannot be done. I told you I had a very rough translation of the ‘The Slaying of the Dragon’ and it is a very rough translation because it is using logograms that are unique to any catalogued writing system. And the problem is that I’m assuming that certain logograms are translated a certain way. Given a larger vocabulary, I will be able to refine the translation, to be more accurate, but in order to be more accurate, it will take time to slowly refine the translation.” He held up the two tablets in his hand. “There are approximately 48 blocks on each side of these and,” he gestured at the cubbies, “I can’t imagine how many tablets there are here, and I can’t imagine they’re all well-known Hittite myths.” 

“You don’t want to know,” Greg said. “This is your new assignment. You WILL translate it and I don’t want to hear any excuses. Start on this tomorrow.” He turned to leave the pit. “Come on.” 

Sherlock carefully placed the tablets back on the shelves and hurried after him. He’d obviously been hired exactly for this sort of work, but they kept moving the goal line on him. He couldn’t pass up this opportunity though. 

“You will be here tomorrow,” Greg said as he locked the door to the building. “Consider this your priority.” 

At breakfast the next day Sherlock sat across from John. “Are you going to stick with Achaemenidian being your speciality?” John didn’t answer him. “So, what exactly are you excavating? Why does everybody seem to be doing their own thing here and what’s the press for me to do these translations? Obviously it’s really a Hittite site, or proto-Hittite at least, but why the secrecy about what’s going on here?” 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We each have our assignment. Greg tells us what he wants us to be concentrating on, and we go from there. He and Richard review everything that we work on and pass it along to the benefactor.” 

“What’s going on between you and Richard?” 

“What do you mean?” John asked. 

“You two don’t seem to like each other.” 

“We have different styles...” John paused, “and goals.” He clearly had chosen his words deliberately. 

Sherlock let John’s answer roll around in his mind. A matter of convenience, then. Or...was there some coercion there? “You should shave that mustache,” he said switching topics. 

When he was done with breakfast, Sherlock headed to the new building and was greeted by Veli. “So, you’re here now,” Sherlock said to him. 

“I do what I’m told to do,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t ask questions.” He unlocked the door for Sherlock and once again, when Sherlock was inside, closed it and locked it. Sherlock sighed and headed down into the pit. 

He walked up and down, looking at the aisles. Where to begin? What were even in these cubbies? Correspondence from a king? Or from a merchant? He sighed and randomly pulled one of the tablets out. Glancing at it quickly, he could see that there were no name logograms like on the wall. He flipped it over and looked at the logograms on the back. No names. He put it back, turned around and pulled one out from a cubby on the other side. Again, no name logograms on either side. These weren’t correspondence tablets then; no salutations, no valediction. He put that one back, too. 

Most of the cubbies had ten to twelve tablets in them. He found one with just three. If he was right, all of the tablets in one cubby would be related, as though it were one book, so starting with a cubby with only a few would give him a sense of what he was dealing with. He took the three tablets and lay them on the ground. He sat down in front of them and opened his laptop and pulled out his notes. 

Surprisingly, it was pretty straightforward. It took him until early afternoon in order to make a rough translation of the three tablets. It was all very technical, unlike most of the cuneiform tablets he was used to translating. The part that made sense was a description of the alignment of channels. What didn’t make sense was the logograms discussing many suns and combining their rays. He went over his notes three times, but it was the best translation he could do at this time. He must be missing some sort of nuance, maybe it was some sort of mystical treatise. 

When he was done with that cubby, he walked down and chose a different cubby. This one had six tablets. He pulled those ones out and started working on a translation. These tablets had multiple name logograms. He recognized the logograms for Inara and Hupašiya, and there were several more besides that he did not recognize. He translated the remaining names before working on the rest of the logograms. 

He was only able to get through the first tablet before he realized it was soon dinner time. These tablets seemed to be an administrative report, addressed to Inara, about some sort of material that Hupašiya had required. Whatever the material was, it was needed by Wurunkatte to construct chimaera. This was a myth he wasn’t familiar with. 

He sighed and closed his laptop. Time to head to dinner again. 

After dinner, as he left the cafeteria, John came up to him. “Mind if I walk back with you?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Not at all. You shaved.” 

John blushed, and then said. “I was hoping to find out how things were going on your end. Anything you can work out can only help us.” 

“I’ll show you,” Sherlock said as he led John into his room. He opened his laptop and showed him a picture of the last tablet he had been working on. “It’s just a request for material of a certain quantity, but I can’t figure out what the material is, and while I sort of have it worked out that they want to construct chimaera, I just don’t know what that means, but that was the closest I could get using the available lexicon I have.” 

John leaned in, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder, his left hand on his back. “Hmmm.” He moved in even closer, his hand slipping down Sherlock’s back, until he was pressed up against him. Sherlock shuddered slightly in pleasure. Was this going to be like being with Molly? 

Sherlock turned around and John moved in to kiss him. He was shocked by the suddenness. He had wanted to tell John that while he was flattered, getting him into bed wasn’t going to magically produce results that did not exist. But the contact flustered him and he enjoyed the feeling of John against him. He pulled John in tight instead. John grabbed Sherlock’s shirt and began to pull it off of him and then followed with his own, moving back in to passionately kiss him when they were bare-chested. 

Sherlock moaned softly as he felt John press against his crotch. Even as they kissed they both hurried to undo their trousers and push them down to the floor with their underwear. John pushed Sherlock back against the bed. Sherlock felt for John’s hard cock and stroked it. He pulled away from John’s kiss. “Wait,” he said. 

Sherlock went to his case and rummaged around before pulling out the aloe vera gel he had brought in case he got a sunburn. In the mean time, John had produced a condom and was already sliding it onto his thick cock. Sherlock squeezed some gel into his palm and stroked John’s cock, getting it nice and slick. John started kissing him again. He grabbed Sherlock’s right leg and lifted it. Sherlock guided John’s cock in and relaxed as John pushed his cock deep into him. His own cock throbbed. 

“Ohhh,” Sherlock moaned as John began to repeatedly thrust into him. He clung to John with one arm and stroked his own cock with his other hand. John was entirely focused on fucking. Suddenly Sherlock’s cock erupted, warm stickiness between the two of them. John thrust one last hard thrust into him and groaned loudly. 

They clung to each other before John slipped out of him. “So that’s all you’ve got?” John asked. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?” 

John pointed to the computer. “That’s it?” 

Sherlock nodded, sad that unfortunately his suspicion had proved right, despite how enjoyable it had been. 

“Hmmm,” John said in disappointment, getting dressed quickly, and left without another word. 

Sherlock sat down and reviewed his notes. He shook his head. He closed his computer and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe he should stop right now. There were too many signals of something suspicious happening here. But on the other hand, he had been given the opportunity of a lifetime. His name would be synonymous with Champollion, Rawlinson, and Kober. He’d have to think about it tomorrow morning, he decided, as he started to get ready for bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Alone in the middle of nowhere. Shadows flitting over the ground, over him. Ominous shadows. Why are they ominous? He looked to the sky to see where the shadows came from. Nothing there. He looked at the sun. A vulture pictogram covered it. He blinked. He stood before the wall, only it was much bigger. 

There was somebody behind him. He turned around. A woman in long flowing robes stood before him. “Who...?” he asked. 

“Everything you think is wrong,” the woman said. “When you know who everybody is, you will know the answer.” 

He didn’t know why, but he asked, “Are you...are you Inara?” He reached out towards her. 

A huge astronomical clock appeared behind her, orbs representing the movement of celestial bodies rotated around it. “Things are moving faster than you think. Time is not your friend.” 

Sherlock blinked awake. This was a more pleasant way to wake than the nightmares he had had every night. He looked at his clock. It was 5 in the morning, but he didn’t feel tired. He got up and opened his laptop. 

Who exactly were these people he was working with? Greg had introduced them with their areas of expertise, but he didn’t know anything about them professionally. He’d start at the top. He had looked up ‘Greg Lestrade’ when he was hired and found his name in various academic journals about digs in Anatolia and Greece. It was fairly mundane work on bronze age sites, but nothing of note. Adding in new search terms gleaned from this site didn’t provide additional results. 

Searching ‘Richard Brook’ gave him no relevant results, nothing relating to Roman and Byzantine archaeology or history. 

The search for ‘John Watson’ gave him results in a completely different direction than what he expected. There were multiple articles either written by John or quoting him about Atlantis. The earliest articles he could find weren’t in reputable journals, but rather fringe publications. Only within the last year did his name appear in more scholarly works. The early works posited that rather than being the creation of Plato that not only did Atlantis actually exist but it was located in Anatolia far earlier than 400 BCE and it was also significantly more advanced than people suspected. 

The most recent article was about the Antikythera mechanism and how it wasn’t a product of Greek, Roman or even Achaemenid civilisation, but rather a remnant of an earlier advanced society. It didn’t name it specifically, but if read with his other works he was clearly referring to an Atlantean civilisation. Sherlock sat back and ran his hand through his hair. How could anybody believe this? 

He closed his eyes and his dream came flooding back. Everything you know is wrong... What could his mind see that he could not? And why was there a need for such mundane translations. John and Richard were practically pushing Greg to show him more. There had to be even more than what he now had. They were looking for something more, something bigger than bureaucratic records or technical minutiae. But what? And they wanted it quickly too. How could he really translate everything in such little time. 

His eyes flew open. Time. He grabbed his notebook and flipped through it. One of the cubbies he had translated had a discourse on the movement of the planets. He went back to the article on the Antikythera mechanism. Other than the wild idea that it originally came from an ‘earlier advanced civilisation’ the article itself was rather boring. The leaps of logic one would have to use to reach the conclusion required a certain suspension of disbelief and the amount of the archaeological record that would need to be ignored was enormous. 

He sighed. This was a dead end, no great revelation. He absent-mindedly scrolled to the top of the article. There was a co-author with John, a ‘Jim Moriarty’. Sherlock typed that name into Google. 

Article after article appeared about Atlantis, and in particular there seemed to be a focus on the power of Atlantis, militarily, and the weapons that Atlantis had at their disposal, including an article on a compact beam weapon that ultimately found its way into the hands of the Israelites which allowed them to conquer Canaan. “The Ark?” Sherlock asked himself incredulously. “Did he watch one too many Indiana Jones movies?” 

Curious about who this Jim Moriarty was, he clicked on the ‘Image’ tab in Google. “Fuck,” he said slowly, softly. It was Richard Brook. 

Sherlock closed his laptop and closed his eyes once again. He needed to think. 

At breakfast that morning, he again sat by himself, but spent the entire time with his head on a swivel. He didn’t want to be surprised by any of them. He didn’t want to speak to them, particularly to John or Richard...orJim, he supposed since that seemed most likely to be his real name. He sat there the entire breakfast time watching them all come and go. John and Jim were deep in discussion about something as they ate. Jim was clearly not happy. 

When the cafeteria was empty save for two or three others, Sherlock closed his eyes. He was missing something else. All of the cubbies he had gone through had contained tablets technical in nature. He had to have missed something in one of them. Maybe his translation was still too rough 

“There’s going to be a roast tonight at five,” a voice said. Sherlock opened his eyes. Sarah was standing across the table from him. “Greg wanted me to tell you. He expects you there.” She turned. 

“Wait,” Sherlock said. Sarah turned back to him. “What exactly is John doing here?” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she demurred. 

“You’re his assistant,” he explained with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Well, at a certain level. And Greg introduced you as John's assistant. But you are not just an ‘assistant’. John has said as much, and from the way you sat close to him when I was introduced to everybody, there is a comfort there of more than just colleagues or simple friends. Although, I’m not quite sure you are his type. You know what people are doing here. So why is John working with Richard?” 

She pursed her lips. “John is here for his expertise on Achaemenid history.” It was like listening to Greg. How much was he involved in? Sherlock shook his head. Not important now. Needed to stay focused. 

“Who is the benefactor?” Sherlock tilted his head slightly. 

“That would be telling,” she said and then paused. Sherlock looked at her expectantly before she continued. “If you don’t know who the benefactor is, then I shouldn’t tell you who the benefactor is.” 

“It’s Jim Moriarty,” he declared. 

“It is not Jim Moriarty,” she replied. 

“Then you know who Jim Moriarty is?” 

“I didn’t say that.” Sarah’s eyes darted around. “I said the benefactor wasn’t Jim Moriarty.” 

Sherlock tapped his fingers together slowly, contemplating his next move. Sarah made no attempt to leave. “What is your role in all of this?” 

“I’m John’s assistant.” 

Sherlock frowned at her. “I’ve never seen the two of you working together. He’s with Richard at the sites, and I’ve only ever seen you here inside the buildings. The two of them have professional...entanglements that you appear to be outside of. Whatever they’re doing with their portion of the dig, you provide excuses and maintain the facade of his interest being in Achaemenid history. You’re not John’s assistant; you’re his handler.” 

A slow smile crept across her face. “Are you going to accuse me of being the benefactor?” 

Sherlock thought for a minute. “You’re too aware of what is going on to not be. And yet...” 

She smiled. “5 o’clock. Maybe you should ask John then. Be seeing you.” She turned and walked away. Sherlock watcher her leave. If she wasn’t going to volunteer any information, there was nothing more to be had from her. 

A huge bonfire roared. Sherlock wandered about the people gathered. It was the same groups of people that he would see at meals. He didn’t want to talk to them but he felt compelled to be there. He was looking for John but he found Richard, who was holding court with several people around him. 

“Sherlock!” Richard called. “Come join us.” Sherlock walked over to the group. “I was just telling everybody about the amazing logograms you’ve deciphered.” 

“Really,” Sherlock said, settling next to Richard. Sherlock had noticed that Sarah had been following him from a distance since he had come to the roast, but now came closer. Richard put his arm around Sherlock, rubbing his shoulder, staring intently at Sarah. Sarah lingered before a moment before disappearing. 

“Who’s funding this dig?” Sherlock asked directly. 

“You want to talk about that now?” Richard laughed. “What do you mean?” 

“Our funding doesn’t come from the BIAA, and they fund most digs in Anatolia. We’re getting our funding from someplace else. Some ONE else. Who? And what do you know about Atlantis?” 

Richard’s face grew dark and he dropped his arm from Sherlock’s shoulder. “Excuse us,” he said to the others. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, emphasizing his last name, “and I need to talk.” The other people left chatting amongst themselves, leaving Richard and Sherlock alone. “Let’s walk,” he said. 

Sherlock followed Richard as they headed across the site to the building he had tried to get into the second day. “Who are you working for?” Richard asked as they walked. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Richard stared hard at him. “What have you figured out? I mean, you’re smart. I’ve seen the work you’ve done. Not only the work here but prior translations as well. If people are stumped, you’re the one they go to. A consulting cuneiformist, if you will. You don’t get what we’re doing here, but that’s just because you don’t have the context.” He pulled out a key and unlocked the door to the building. Once Sherlock was inside he shut the door and flicked a switch. Lights came on one by one, revealing a flat surface, paved with large rocks and covered with a slight dust. Richard walked forward, Sherlock following him. About halfway across the length of the Richard stopped abruptly. Sherlock stopped as well. Suddenly, a round 10 foot section of the floor they were standing on began to descend jolting Sherlock momentarily. “Surprised to see this? I know I was. Well, sort of. I think I finally found what I was looking for. But I suppose by now you know what I’m looking for? Right?” 

Sherlock remained silent as they descended down a long metal shaft. The elevator came to a stop in a long, rock-hewn corridor buttressed by metal ribs. Richard started walking down the corridor passing by several metal doors. 

“Sadly,” Richard continued, “It’s a bit different than what I thought it would be. But, to be honest, what we’re dealing with is much older than you could even comprehend.” Richard led him through one of the doorways. 

If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would have thought that he was standing in a modern lab. It didn’t look that much different from what he saw on the telly at night. The walls were metal, with cabinets along the walls and tables in the middle of the room. “There are numerous corridors extending under the entire site, filled with rooms like this. We still don’t know what happened on the surface, whether their buildings were constructed like this, although I suspect not, given what little has passed down through sources and what remains above us. Then again, Plato mixed up Atlantis and Santorini and he couldn’t comprehend what Atlantis was truly like since he had no context for it compared to the city-states of his day.” 

Sherlock looked up and realized that there weren’t any lights, but the ceiling glowed almost like it was one large LED panel. But where was the power coming from for it? He doubted that Richard, Greg or even John were able to hook the ceiling to the dig’s power source, which means there had to have been an independent power source that was still working millennia later. 

“I have to say that your work so far hasn’t been exactly what is really needed. There is a reason why we refer to that as the library. It was meant for public consumption, unlike the work down here.” Richard walked over and leaning down behind a table pulled out a device and placed it on the table. “Do you know what this is?” 

Sherlock stared at it. It was a metal tube with what looked like a grip at one end. “Clearly it’s some sort of weapon, Richard. Or should I call you Jim?” He looked up at him. “I know the company you keep and what their interests are. Which means the benefactor is either a government or a terrorist organisation. Given the amateurish nature of this dig, I’m going with terrorists.” 

“You just don’t get...” Jim picked up the device and examined it briefly. “I’m going to guess that if I handed this to you, you wouldn’t know how to work it. And that was the problem at first, although we’ve had some success with it simply through trial and error. Most of what we’ve accomplished has been through that. But I’ve seen your translations, and they will help with the notebooks we have down here.” 

“Notebooks?” Sherlock asked. 

“Did you think what you saw was the only written material? I just said what was in the library was meant for public consumption, which means there is even more material elsewhere.” Jim tilted his head and looked at Sherlock. “I’m so disappointed you couldn’t make that logical connection.” 

Jim put the tube down and walked over to a cabinet along the wall. He opened it, and pulled out a block, and dropped it on the table in front of Sherlock. Sherlock reached out and lifted the top. It was a book. Only it was made of thin, metal pages instead of paper. His eyes scanned quickly the logograms that filled the page and he began to quickly flip through them, going through as many of the pages as quickly as possible. The logograms themselves were not uniform nor always neatly spaced, as though somebody had written them into the metal. He rubbed his finger over them. There were no sharp edges or burrs. 

“These rooms are filled with what we call ‘notebooks’,” Jim said, crossing his arms over his chest. “But once we have a reliable lexicon and an understanding of the grammar, we’ll be able to sort, index, and translate all of what is here, most of which is still more advanced than our civilisation.” 

Sherlock looked up at Jim smiling smugly. “I resign. I’m not doing any more of your dirty work.” 

Jim laughed. “You’re not the first that we’ve had out here. And though the others didn’t get anywhere near as far as you have, do you think they were permitted to leave?” 

Sherlock thought quickly. “Molly!” 

“It’s amazing how good some of these things are at disposing of bodies,” Jim said. 

Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed the tube by the grip and pointed the other end at Jim. “Beam weapons. That’s what you have. They incinerate the bodies, leaving only charred bones.” 

“Too bad you have no idea how that works,” Jim said, still somewhat relaxed, “Or I think I might actually be a little scared at this point.” He pulled a smaller metal tube from his pants pocket. “But I do, and while this one isn’t as powerful, it does get the job done. Sadly, this is the end of the job for you, but you don’t get to resign.” 

Sherlock swallowed. “Your mistake is that you handed me a manual for one of your weapons. It’s a different device but there was enough similarity between what I hold in my hands and what the book describes. And I can actually read...enough...of what it was you handed me. At least the important parts.” Sherlock carefully applied pressure with his fingers and palm and thought about the energy flowing from him and into the rube. A bright light shot out of the end of the tube and struck Jim. 

Jim was no more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Büyüknefes, Yozgat Province, Turkey

Richard stared hard at him. “What have you figured out? I mean, you’re smart. I’ve seen the work you’ve done. Not only the work here but prior translations as well. If people are stumped, you’re the one they go to. A consulting cuneiformist, if you will. You don’t get what we’re doing here, but that’s just because you don’t have the context.”

. . . 

Richard walked over and leaning down behind a table pulled out a device and placed it on the table. “Do you know what this is?”

Sherlock stared at it. It was a metal tube with what looked like a grip at one end. “Clearly it’s some sort of weapon, Richard. Or should I call you Jim?”

. . . 

“Did you think what you saw was the only written material? I just said what was in the library was meant for public consumption, which means there is even more material elsewhere.” Jim tilted his head and looked at Sherlock. “I’m so disappointed you couldn’t make that logical connection.”

Jim put the tube down and walked over to a cabinet along the wall. He opened it, and pulled out a block, and dropped it on the table in front of Sherlock. Sherlock reached out and lifted the top. It was a book. Only it was made of thin, metal pages instead of paper. His eyes scanned quickly the logograms that filled the page and he began to quickly flip through them, going through as many of the pages as quickly as possible. The logograms themselves were not uniform nor always neatly spaced, as though somebody had written them into the metal.

. . . 

Sherlock looked up at Jim smiling smugly. “I resign. I’m not doing any more of your dirty work.”

Jim laughed.

. . . 

Sherlock swallowed. “Your mistake is that you handed me a manual for one of your weapons. It’s a different device but there was enough similarity between what I hold in my hands and what the book describes. And I can actually read...enough...of what it was you handed me. At least the important parts.” Sherlock carefully applied pressure with his fingers and palm and thought about the energy flowing from him and into the rube. A bright light shot out of the end of the tube and struck Jim.

Jim was no more.

. . . 

Sherlock walked over to where Jim had been standing and stared down at the floor. Blackened bones lay in a pile. There was no trace of muscles, skin, even clothes. All of it was gone. He pushed the bones with the toe of his shoe. They clattered a bit on the stone floor.

 _I have to leave._ He hurried over to the cabinet and started pulling books out, quickly flipping them open and scanning the first few pages. None of them appeared to be about the weapon he had or the weapon Jim had. He went back to the bones, crouched down and pushed them aside. The weapon was still there. He grabbed it and headed out the door. 

He was back in the corridor. If he was able to retrace his steps, he’d get to the lift to take him back to the surface, but he didn’t know how Jim had made it work. Had it returned to the surface? And if people came looking for them, that’s where they would be coming from...unless there was another entrance. He had no way of knowing. A map would be useful. He continued away from the lift, clutching the weapons tightly. 

The corridors wound endlessly through the rock. Sherlock tried to make note of points he passed, but there was a sameness to them all. It was the same sparse retro-futurism look with minimal lighting, enough to allow him to see where he was going, but nothing to orient him; nothing like what he would expect in a neolithic settlement. Doorways led to other rooms, some the same size as the one he had been in with Jim, but others were much bigger. Other doorways led to more halls. His eyes darted about for logograms from the Atlanteans, or some other signs that the dig might have placed to help them navigate this labyrinth, but there was nothing. 

Too many corridors as well. They turned and bent at odd angles, none of the floors level so he was constantly going up and down. As much as he tried, he could feel himself becoming disoriented. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Sherlock spun around. The sound. It was...it wasn’t...he couldn’t put his finger on it. Familiar, but he couldn’t identify it, or where it came from. He hurried on. 

The corridor emptied into a great big cavern with a large shaft in the center dropping away into nothing. The faint glow that highlighted the metal buttresses in the corridors and now this room gave no indication what was down there. He walked over to the shaft. It was pitch black. He glanced around. Multiple doorways similar to the one that he had emerged from ringed the cavern, leading to more corridors. Which one to take? None of them were appealing. None of them gave the slightest indication on how to get out. 

It was then that six robed figures emerged from the corridors into the room. Each person had on a white hooded robe. They were followed by a dozen more behind each of them also in hooded robes. Sherlock carefully adjusted his grip on the weapons, raising them about waist high, waiting, anticipating. He spun quickly, trying to keep an eye on each of them. “I would advise each of you,” he called out loudly, his voice echoing around the sparse chamber, “that unfortunately I had no choice but to use a device to eliminate Richard Brook, or Jim Moriarty, if you knew him by that name.” 

None of the figures said anything, or even moved from where they had emerged from the corridors. 

“I think, at this time, it best that I leave.” He looked around. “So, you should move out of my way. I’m not anxious to use this again, but I will if you leave me no other option.” 

Still, they did not move. 

Sherlock lifted his right hand and slowly pointed the rod at each of the six. The was no movement from them. 

“Answer me!” Sherlock cried. “Say something.” 

“’All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women, meerely players...” A muffled voice called out one of the figures. “And as such, we have arrived at the climax of the action. You have solved one mystery, the minor of the two, the superficial one if you will. You took drastic steps to ensure your survival...as though it was ever in doubt. And now, now, we reach the very pinnacle of the story. Shall we continue on then, each in our roles? Hero. Villain. Lover. Cad. Which ever part we've each been cast as, we must continue and see this out.” He paused. “Do you not wish to know who the benefactor is?” He threw back his hood revealing a dark, metal plated helmet designed to look like a bird...a vulture. The eyes glowed green. “You’ve been very concerned about it.” 

The mouth didn’t move with the words. 

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. It was male, but it wasn’t Greg or John. He ran over and over in his mind what he had just said. It didn’t make sense. “Who are you?” he demanded. 

“That would be telling.” Sherlock could almost detect laughter in his voice. 

Sherlock pointed the rod in his right hand at him. He started, “I will not be pushed...” The man reached behind his head and with a faint clicking sound followed by a soft woosh pulled the helmet forward and off. Sherlock gasped when he saw Jim’s grinning face. 

“But you’re dead,” Sherlock protested. 

“And you’re not.” Jim replied. “You can’t kill me. Hero. Villain. What is the difference between the two? Without me, there is no you. I have to exist, I always will exist. I am your antagonist, and I am sooooo good at antagonizing. I do have to say I wasn’t anticipating your impulsive action in killing me. You’re much too...calculated.” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“Stop this,” a female voice said. Sherlock glanced around, trying to figure out which one it came from. “It gets us nowhere. He should at least be of some use.” Sally. Practical. But which one was it. And who were all these people. 

“See,” Jim gestured at her, “she pushes forward the plot, but that is not what is most pressing. But you don’t realize it quite yet. So we shall engage each other in this elaborate pantomime, and by and by all will be revealed. For the time, I withdraw.” He bowed low to Sherlock. 

He ignored Jim’s psychotic ramblings; at least Jim wasn’t trying to attack him. He wouldn’t let Jim distract him now. “What’s down there?” Sherlock asked her. “I’d guess it were a missile silo, only what use would an ancient culture have with that.” 

Nobody said anything. Sherlock glanced around. Jim still had his mask off, but the others. Sally was to his right. Molly. Greg. John. Sarah. And the others behind them? Workers from the dig, or...if the benefactor was a terrorist would this be a private army? Both, most likely. 

“It’s a chimera,” the figure behind him said. Sherlock pivoted and pointed the other rod at him. The figure gestured and lights flooded the tube. A massive metallic head, demonic in its visage, stared up at him. 

“For all of your cleverness in figuring out other aspects of the technology,” Sherlock said, “mostly through luck, you could not figure out how to work it.” Sherlock looked at Jim and then back at the other figure. “John,” Sherlock called, “I think you know what I want.” 

The figure reached behind his head pulled off his mask. “What makes you think I can give you what you want?” John asked. 

“You collaborate with Jim simply to prove your theories right. You know what it is that Jim is after but you have no interest in his machinations; he’s the conduit to allow you access to the funds necessary for an operation like this. Sarah is simply there to enable you and give you a buffer between Jim and the benefactor, as much as she might detest Jim. It’s time I know who the benefactor is.” 

“Ah!” Jim shouted, striding forward. Sherlock kept the rod pointing at him, adjusting his grip slightly. “We’ve now reached the moment of truth. Who IS the benefactor?” Jim walked right up to Sherlock letting the rod poke him in the chest. “Who is this director moving around the characters on this elaborate stage? You, in your demands, continue your role, deeply immersed in the character. So rational. It’s so...” His voice trailed off and he shuddered, gasping slightly. “But I,” he picked up again, “I, your humble servant, have played my role to perfection, and each other character, including you, have been exquisite in your performances. Brava!” He raised his hands next to his head and started clapping politely. “Well done.” The other robed figures started clapping with him. Their applause echoed through the chamber. 

Sherlock jabbed the rod into Jim’s chest. “I could do it again.” 

Jim stopped clapping instantly and the others immediately did as well. “I do not doubt that but doing so at this point would be so anticlimactic. You did it once already. It was an incredible cliffhanger leading into the finale chapter, but now...now it would just be sadistic.” 

John dropped the mask, a harsh metallic clattering on the stone floor. He approached Sherlock. Sherlock eyed him warily, but as he approached, he lowered the tube pointing at John. John gently took Sherlock by the arm. Sherlock swallowed hard. John escorted him towards one of the walls of the cavern. Jim started signing, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow.’ Sherlock glanced back at him and saw Jim wave his arms to encourage everybody else to sing along, which they started to do. The song echoed around the chamber. Sherlock willingly allowed John to guide him, but at the same time kept any eye on the rest of the figures whose dark hooded heads followed his movement. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“Where’s that knocking coming from?” Sherlock asked John. 

“What knocking?” John replied. 

“The...” Sherlock drifted off as they approached a wooden door set into the rocky wall of the cavern. It would not be out of place in any English home or even University, but here, even in a setting that looked at home in some 60's spy thriller, this was very out of place. 

John let go of his arm and opened door. He gave Sherlock a quick kiss. “This is as far as I can go. What you need to know is in there.” 

Sherlock stared at him and then quickly glanced back at the rest. Nobody else had moved, but they had stopped their singing when John opened the door. They silently stood watching him. Sherlock walked through the door into a small room. The door swung shut behind him. A plain wooden table with a computer terminal sat in the middle of the dimly lit room. Sherlock walked over and sat down placing the tubes on the table. An old-fashioned computer monitor and keyboard. A most unusual set-up. The glowing green cursor blinked expectantly on the black screen. 

He typed. “Who are you?” 

The cursor blinked agonizingly before the response appeared. “Who are you” Then again and again, slowly at first and then rapidly, filling the screen. 

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Suddenly, the screen cleared and it was once more just a blinking cursor. 

Sherlock frowned. More words appeared. “Answer the door.” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Sherlock looked up from the monitor and slowly twisted his torso so he could look at the door. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

The knocking was coming from the door. But if that’s where the knocking was coming from, why had he been able to hear it long before he came into the room? And why would somebody be knocking when they could easily just open the door and come in? 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“Yeah?” he called. 

The door opened. “We’re going to put on Infinity War,” his housemate said, sticking his head in. Mike...Stamford, or something like that. He didn’t really know his housemates that well; he kept to himself when he was home. “You want to join us?” Mike looked around, craning his neck to see what was on the screen. “What are you doing in here?” 

“It’s nothing,” he stammered. “I’ll...I’ll be down in a few minute. Don’t wait for me.” 

Mike nodded and closed the door behind him. 

He turned to look back at his laptop. It was... 

He sighed. It was all stupid. None of it made sense, nothing was consistent. The logic behind everything was non-existent. Characters dropped in and out. And the sex scenes were just forced. There wasn’t any real reason for them. He sighed again. 

“Damn it,” he whispered silently. Maybe there was something he could salvage, but he would do it later. He pushed back the wooden chair, the legs scraping roughly across the floor boards. He quietly closed the laptop, went to the door, opened it, and left the room. 

The door clicked shut behind Sherlock as he left the lavatory and made his way back to his seat. The captain came over the intercom moments later to inform the passengers that the plane was now making their final approach to Esenboğa Airport in Ankara. Sherlock was thankful when he was finally able to stand up for good. Airline seats were not designed for people of even average height. The people were slow to exit the plane. He couldn’t wait to finally get off. He had boarded a plane at Heathrow at 6:30 that morning and even though he had almost a ninety minute layover in Istanbul, now seven hours later he was done traveling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many thanks to MissDavis for helping me with this.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this please check out my other works


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